The Letters
by TheRavenLady
Summary: On his quest to take down Moriarty's web after the fall, Sherlock writes thirteen letters to John, detailing his time away. Reveals are made, and secrets spilled; and he will never send them. Post-Reichenbach; Rated T for mentions of drug use.


**Letter the First**

I would hold you, if permitted, John. I would take you into these thin, reaching arms of mine and hold you close ; until you could feel everything within me. Until we melted into each other. I would lay a hand to your face and press my quivering mouth to your forehead, smoothing your brow, which is always so furrowed in your frustration.

If I would allow myself, John, I would whisper my sentiments and my secrets- how I love you; how I long for you never to leave my side; how waking to your presence assures me that I am able to be okay, even when it seems like an impossible dream. John, if I would ever give myself the freedom, I would take you into my arms and whisper my secrets into your ear; and I would kiss your mouth, so sweetly, until you relented and kissed me back. I would.

Oh, but John; I would never allow such a thing, for I am married to my work you know very well. Distractions; they keep me from my real addiction- the replacement for the cocaine. But I have feel that perhaps, I could afford such a distraction, and replace it with another; that distraction being you. For through careful study of your character, and how I feel, my dearest, simple John, I have found that the high you have managed to provide me this past year is much, much sweeter.

**Letter the Second**

There are very few things in this life, John, that I tolerate very well. For instance; I do not appreciate when others tell me what to do- ordering me about; telling me when to sleep or eat or clean, or what to do with my hair. But, I make an exception (usually) for Mrs. Hudson, for she is more than a landlady or the kind widow next door- she is a mother. The sort that orphaned children or people with terrible mothers dream about; and I find myself having a soft spot within myself for her kindness and love for me, even if it is rather misplaced, most days.

And you, John, are the prime example of the very, very few exceptions that I make for the things that I will tolerate.

Usually, I would never tolerate someone telling me that I am wrong or arguing with me so often as you; reminding me almost constantly of my damnable humanity, and and that no matter how much I play about with Death, that I am, very unfortunately, not immortal, even when I pretend to be. I can tolerate you acting like my mother sometimes; nagging me and gunning me for my responsibilities. I can even tolerate when you get angry and refuse to speak to me for a few hours.

I tolerate this, John, because I love you, whether I like it or not. Somehow, all of my carefully constructed walls, which I have spent the whole of my life building, have somehow crumbled at your gentle touch. And now, my dearest John, my heart belongs to you- something I thought was impossible, frankly, for most days, it does not even belong to me. I usually have no use for it; but now it seems that you have given me one.

**Letter the Third**

I've done so many things in my life, John, that normal people usually deeply regret. I cannot say that I regret a lot of them, because I am not one of the 'normal' people who spend their days trying desperately to align their moral compass. But I can say that on a usual basis, I think of them and wonder how you feel about such occurrences. I wonder if the knowledge of these things (well, some of them, anyway; you can't know _everything_), might turn you from me. If one day you will look at all of these terrible, immoral, selfish things that I have done and turn your back on me, because someone with such strong morals as yours should not have to tolerate someone with no morals, like myself.

I must admit, therefore, that the idea of you giving up on me is a painful one; even if it is hard to admit. (Which it is. You know I do not like to expose myself this way. In fact, all of these letters are going completely against my nature. Therefore, I will never send them.) But I find myself reflecting on these sorts of things more often than not these days- ever since my separation from you, I have constantly wondered at how you must feel about me. It is constantly in the forefront of my thoughts. I wonder, on a daily basis, if you ever regret meeting me. I'm sure that you do- everyone I meet does. And I don't say this pessimistically- I say it simply from truth.

John, how must you feel? What must you think of me?

I mentioned, in the very beginning of this letter, that I have done many terrible things in my life. And the one that I regret- completely and totally- is inflicting this misery upon you. I've seen you- I have seen the lines on your face; the tiredness in your eyes; the defeat in your gait and the way you hold yourself.

John, if I could ever take back one decision, it would be hurting you. You mean... You mean so much to me. More than I could ever admit, even to myself. You have shown me so much of the human side of life- what it is to use your heart for more than pumping blood and giving you life; what it means to have friends; to care. Things I spent the entirety of my life avoiding... Until you came in, of course. Until you changed... everything.

I feel so lost. I am completely out of my element- the concept of regret, remorse, is not one I am familiar with. And while I do not regret the decision to insinuate my death, I regret what it has done to you. I regret the rift that it will inevitably create between us. I wonder, very often, how I will ever be able to show my face to you shamelessly, after all of this has ended.

Would you have me? Oh, John. I only hope the answer to that is yes.

**Letter the Fourth**

The world turns slowly for the impatient, man, John; and I am impatience incarnate as I wait for this trying time to be over.

This process is tedious. So very tedious. I've grown bored of the hunt- I know what to look for, and where to look for it. This has become more of a chore than anything. I would stop right now and go home- but I know you would never approve. And neither would I, actually. I do hate to leave anything unfinished.

So as I sit here, in this dim and cheap motel room in northern Russia, I hope that wherever you are at the moment, you are more content than I am. I soothe my own restless mind with thoughts of you in comfort- I hope, rather fervently, that this extended period of time has been kinder to you than it has to me. It has been nearly one whole year since that fateful afternoon, and in this time, I have simply grown more weary and more frustrated than I have ever been.

God, this is tragic, isn't it?

The illustrious Sherlock Holmes, so easily defeated by his own boredom. I sicken myself with the idea of giving up; yet the possibility is never far from my mind. I'm such a hypocrite, John. I always have been. But you knew that. I know you did. That you still do. All I seem to know anymore is my own pent-up frustration, eating me alive. Even right now, as I try to distract myself by writing this, I am restless, and my mind is wandering. This is madness, John. Complete and utter madness.

I yearn for the day when I may end it.

**Letter the Fifth**

It's been so long since I've written one of these. That last letter was written a year ago to date. How could it have been so long already? How could two years have slipped away from me with so much ease?

I can hardly keep track of time. Not that it matters. It hardly matters right now- all that matters is finding them. Of ending this madness. Of keeping all of you safe.

God, I hope you're safe.

I don't pray, John. You know very well that I am not a religious man. But sometimes, I find myself sending my hopes and questions to the wind, seemingly on a whim. I hope that someone, anyone, is watching over you and keeping you out of harm's way. Not that anyone could harm you more than I have; I made sure of that, I think. I'm still paying for that. I don't think I'll ever stop. But if I could have anything right in this moment, it would be the assurance that you are safe. That you're okay. Healthy and alive and well. It's more than I can say for myself.

I can't really say too much for myself at all, these days.

**Letter the Sixth**

Afghanistan.

That is where I am at this very moment. It is so very different from the lush, rainy land of England. These cities, while just as crowded as London, are completely different. Everything is different.

Being here makes me think of you.

I've seen the soldiers- both American and British- and I can picture you among them, wearing your fatigues and heavy gear, a gun strapped to your back and a look of grim determination weathering your face. I take small comfort in the thought that you once felt this endless sun on your face; felt this sand beneath your boots; breathed this hot, dry air; heard the sounds of these people around you. I can picture it, so clearly, that I sometimes wonder if you really are here right now- even though I know that's impossible.

I am thankful for picking up Arabic, because God knows I would be lost right now if I hadn't. This is the first time in my life that I am thankful, truly, for something Mycroft forced upon me as a child. Those endless hours of drilling foreign languages into my brain, making sure I could move with the world. Well, he can congratulate himself, because I'm putting it to good use.

I've found a safe house with a rebel group that has their own vendetta against Moriarty and his men. They've given me shelter and information, all of which I am thankful for. They understand what he has done- and they've helped me immeasurably in my task of elimination. I'm beginning to feel a little hopeful. I know that is a fool's emotion, but it cannot be helped. Perhaps this will work out in my favour. Perhaps I shall be returning sooner than I thought.

For the first time in a long time, I look forward to the future. I only hope you are looking onto the future in as pleasant a light as I, John. Really and truly.

**Letter the Seventh**

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so, so sorry, John; for I have done the unthinkable. The unforgivable. Even writing the words will cause me grief.

I submitted again, John.

Looking back on the last letter, I wonder how I ever managed such a measure of happiness. Of hope. I knew it would end badly- I named it, very aptly, a fool's emotion. And I am the blindest of fools, John, for I ruined everything.

Cocaine.

What have I done? Why did I allow myself to fall into such a thing again? I swear that I never meant for it to come to this. Never, ever, ever. I just wanted... I don't even know what I wanted. Other than to go home and end this; I have no idea what I want.

And now all I want is the high.

My veins, John. They're aching. Screaming. So violently. The voices in my head- they never cease, they never shut up, they never stop. I scream back at them; they just laugh at me and keep going, talking forever and ever about everything- and it _hurts_. It hurts, and I am so tired. I just want this pain to end.

I don't want to hurt anymore, John.

…

I'm sorry.

**Letter the Eighth**

I've never seen such beautiful colours, in all my life. They're so beautiful. I don't think there's even a name for them. They're dancing, so prettily.

I danced tonight, John. Oh, how I danced. There were people everywhere- bodies thrashing and grinding and swaying. And the walls were throbbing, and the music was deafening, and I was so high I thought I might fly away into the night and never come back. I'm still high.

It feels so good. It makes the screaming stop. I like it when the screaming stops. My head is quiet, except for the beautiful thoughts. Like the colours. I love the colours. They're one of my favourite parts. They're so beautiful.

I'm so warm. This is wonderful. My heart is beating so fast; it's like a song. Like the songs they were playing in the club. We should go sometime- I want to see you dance. It would be so funny to watch you dance, John. I'm laughing. Are you? You should. It's so funny. John Watson, army doctor and closet dancer. I'll laugh over that one for ages.

I feel really good right now. So good. I wish you could feel this good, John. Maybe you do- I don't know how you feel, because you're not here. That makes me sad. But I don't want to be sad right now. I got high so I wouldn't be sad.

I don't like being sad.

**Letter the Ninth**

I'm dizzy. I want to dance, but I keep falling over.

Fuck. I don't remember what I wanted to say. I think it was important. I don't know. I hope you can read this. I'm writing really fast, because my hand isn't working in time with my words.

Maybe I'll try and dance some more. I like the way it feels, believe it or not. Maybe I'll invent my own language. I know I could do it. I could say anything I wanted, and no one could question me because they won't understand. It would be funny.

I'm laughing so hard right now- I'm crying. I hope I don't smudge the ink. Oh well. You'll never read these, anyway.

I'm so high.

**Letter the Tenth**

It's nearly done. Any day now; and I'll be on my way home to London, where I belong. With you.

I miss you.

I miss everything. Mrs. Hudson; the flat; my skull... But mostly you. And I am so tired, John. All I want to do is go home and lie down on our sofa and listen to you talk and smell the lemon cleaner Mrs. Hudson uses on the coffee table and wear my dressing gown over my clothes and turn my brain off and fall asleep where I know I am safe and wanted. I want to hear you nag at me for using your notebook without your permission. I long for the look of exasperation on your face when I tell you how ugly your jumpers are. I ache for those long looks you give me when I do something that fascinates you. I want you, John.

I want you to tell me that everything is okay. To take me into your embrace and call me an idiot and tell me you hate me because I hurt you. And then I will tell you that I love you. You'll probably punch me or start crying or kiss me. Maybe all three. It wouldn't matter. I would let you do whatever you wanted; because it's you, and that's all that matters. It wouldn't matter if you broke my nose or blackened my eye or bruised my lips from kissing them too hard. It wouldn't matter because I know that even if you are angry, you care about me.

I'm such a terrible person.

But that wouldn't even matter to you, would it? I hope not. I don't know how much more I could take. I'm so very, very tired. And I simply long for the comforts of home- particularly you. You became everything to me. You still are; but you wouldn't know that, because you think I'm dead. I'm so sorry.

I'll do everything in my power to make this up to you. I can think of nothing but my redemption. I will walk to the ends of the earth and back if that is what you ask of me, John, and you know it. I'll stop at nothing to prove your worth. I will spend the rest of my days trying to make it up to you, if that is what you ask of me. because you're worth everything.

You're the reason I've been going. Forget the need for revenge; forget the other people; forget the drugs. They don't matter. You do. It's always been you. I wish I could've told you that. I have a little hope left in me, though; for the last time I laid eyes on you, you said that you still believed in me. I'll hold you to that, John, and hope that even after these long three years, you still believe in me. Please believe in me. I'm begging you. Please believe in me, John. I don't know what I would do if you didn't.

**Letter the Eleventh**

It's done, John. I can go home. I'm free. We're all free.

I'm counting down the hours.

**Letter the Twelfth**

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day that I come home. I'm ready, John. I've been waiting. It's taken me three years; and they have taken their toll. I'm not well. I'm thin. I'm dirty. I'm an addict again. But by God and all the powers that may or may not be- I'm coming home to you.

That, old friend, you can believe in.

**Letter the Thirteenth**

I am currently writing this as I sit in the flat, waiting for you to come home. It is to my knowledge that you worked a shift at the surgery today, and then went out with your work mates for a few drinks. I expect, based on your drinking habits, that it will be a long night.

But I don't mind the waiting.

So, while I wait for you, I sit and write my final letter. The letter that will never be seen by the man it is truly meant for, like its companions. Because you would never forgive me for what i have written in these tainted pages. I have done so much wrong by you in these last three years, John, that as I sit here and write, I feel fear. Real, true, deep fear within my heart. I fear what will happen when you see me. That you'll reject me. That you'll have moved on. That you don't need me anymore.

That would be the worst blow of all- because I need you, John, now more than ever. And right now, I promise you that I will pull myself together again and clean up the mess I've made. That I will never give you a reason to hurt ever again. I refuse to see you hurt anymore. I'll do everything I can to make this right. I'll go back to rehab. I'll get on my knees and apologise in every language I know. Which is a lot. I will do whatever it takes to prove to you that I never stopped thinking of you or caring about you during these last three years.

Forgive me, John. Find it in your heart to forgive me. It doesn't have to happen right now. I know it won't. That would be expecting far too much- and even I can admit how selfish that would be. But I do ask you to keep an open heart and an open mind. Please. If you oblige me anything, please let it be that. It's a lot to ask, since you don't owe me anything- not after what I've put you through. I can never stop apologising. Just... please.

I hear you on the stairs, so it's time to sign off for the final time.

I love you, John. I just wanted you to know that.

Yours, truly and always,

Sherlock


End file.
